Inevitable Loss
by tamiiland
Summary: Jazz and Ironhide's deactivations affected William Lennox more than he thought.
1. Jazz

Read'n'Review—it feeds the muse!

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><p><strong>Inevitable Loss<br>****Chapter One: ****Jazz**

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><p>Lennox watched as the lime coloured alien worked to save the life of his comrade—the small silver one whose designation was a musical style. He couldn't remember which one. Jazz? Blues? Gospel? It didn't really matter at the moment. The torn body was still resting in two pieces, but the bigger robot would only focus on the upper part of the corpse. He rummaged through the chest as he moved around cables, wires and cogs that Lennox just <em>knew<em> were innards; his precise, glowing 'eyes' piercing every inch of the frame. The Captain pressed his lips together, not wanting to point out the obvious to the viciously determined medic: the not-Solstice was long gone.

"If I could find just a pulse… a signature…" the alien muttered for what seemed like the millionth time, moving his hands between ragged breastplates, searching for something that evidently wasn't there. If Lennox had understood correctly the lime coloured alien's frantic murmurs, the silver robot could be saved if his 'spark' was still active. "Just _one_."

Looming over the corpse even more, the not-Hummer dedicated his full attention to the damaged circuitry in front of him, and Lennox felt suddenly chagrined at how the medic had to work kneeling on the dirt, hiding in an abandoned warehouse, probably with not enough tools or materials to do his job properly. He could at least have a clean place to work and basic equipment if a stupid lot of paranoid humans weren't so unwilling to trust and be trusted.

The hopelessness the lime coloured alien was secretly feeling wrapped itself around Lennox's heart, and what little faith he had unknowingly still held plummeted to the depths.

"What's he doin'?" Epps whispered, leaning onto his gun.

"Dunno," Lennox said in equally hushed tones. "He keeps saying something 'bout finding a spark."

"Spark? Like that cube-thing?"

Lennox shrugged. "I don't think so, but it seems important. Like a main battery or whatever."

"Alien heart," Epps guessed.

"Probably."

Both men stood next to each other silently, watching as the not-Hummer worked on his fallen friend, rabidly attempting to snatch the silver robot's life back from Death. Lennox would never forget how tender the big black alien had been whilst carrying the corpse in his arms, how dim the leader's eyes had looked. Sneaking away from Mission City with the carcass hadn't been easy, but they had done it. Lennox had reached that point of his career in which he disobeyed protocol in favour of doing what was right, and he knew his unit supported his actions. They would have done anything to honour the warrior.

"If it's a heart, maybe he wants to defibrillate or… something."

"Probably."

"But he already tried to save his friend back in Mission City. Isn't it kinda in vain to keep trying?"

"Probably."

Epps looked at him and frowned. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah… I mean, no." The Captain rubbed his eyes and sighed quietly. "It's just… This guy died covering our retreat."

"Jazz is definitely _not_ dead yet, Captain Lennox. Not until I say so," the not-Hummer growled, deft hands still moving inside the torn upper chassis.

There was a short silence before Lennox found his voice again.

"Y-yes, of course." He hadn't known the alien had been listening. Their conversation might have sounded rude.

"Make room, please," the lime coloured alien requested, shooing them.

Lennox and Epps pressed themselves against a wall, but the Captain asked, "Something wrong?"

"Prime's coming," the alien said.

"Who?" Epps frowned.

"The Peterbilt 379 truck with the loud paintjob," the alien clarified. "Designation: Optimus Prime."

"'Designation'?"

"His name."

"Ah. Wh—"

Lennox elbowed his Lieutenant in the ribcage vigorously and mouthed at him to shut up. Epps shrugged guiltily when he realised that it wasn't the best of moments to be asking questions. The not-Hummer looked positively ticked off and ready to go homicidal on whoever dared to distract him.

Nifty metal hands reappeared when the alien finally pulled out of what would be a human's upper ribcage section. Placing the big palms on his knees, the metal medic's posture sagged, at long last accepting the crushing truth. Lennox shifted his weight and gazed sadly at the wrecked metal, what was left of a brave warrior, for the not-Hummer's body language spoke what he had been droning inside his head for the last hours: dead.

"I'm so sorry," Lennox whispered.

The alien looked at him dejectedly. "There's nothing to forgive."

Shaking his head, Lennox tried to mumble whatever words could mend his mistake of irrationally plunging into a massacre and then retreating to safety as one single warrior stayed behind to cover his back. However, nothing seemed to be good enough to say out loud, and before Lennox lost himself in a spiral of self-berating, Epps' mobile phone started to buzz.

"Crap," he uttered, looking at the ID. Answering, he listened for a few seconds and swiftly hung up. "I gotta go."

Lennox nodded. "Alright."

Epps doubted just an instant before murmuring, "My condolences."

"Thank you," the not-Hummer said.

Just as the black soldier reached the rusty bay doors, the rumble of a truck's engine approaching indicated the arrival of Optimus Prime, and Epps strode to a side for good measure as he walked out. Lennox straightened to attention as the not-Peterbilt rolled in, solemnly coming to a halt in front of the alien medic and transforming. The Captain felt frightened awe at first, but quickly discarded it when he noticed the grief the impressive leader sported.

A thick silence ensued.

"I tried, Optimus," the smaller alien murmured finally, clenching his hands into fists and looking away ashamedly. "I tried."

"And no one is saying you did nothing but your best, Ratchet," the leader said, placing a comforting hand on the top of the medic's head. A stray neuron in Lennox's brain told him that it was a rather childish way of treating an adult—but that was in human culture. "Jazz never liked fighting; we should be glad the war is over for him. He has moved on to something better."

The medic (Ratchet, Lennox remembered) let out a clicking sound and struggled to look up at his leader. Small nods, shrugs and shakes of the head indicated Lennox that they were probably talking a private matter telepathically. He didn't know if their kind could do that, but at this point, Lennox was ready to believe that, too.

Concluding whatever conversation the alien leader had been holding with his medic, the giant called Optimus Prime looked down at him and bowed his head respectfully. Lennox gawked in surprise.

"I thank you, Captain, for everything you have done so far. We hope to find more allies such as you amongst humanity."

A pang of guilt rattled Lennox. "I don't think I deserve those kind words, uh, Sir."

"You may call me Optimus for short, Captain. Sam does that."

"Right, right…" Lennox rubbed his neck. "Uh, listen, Optimus, I know it doesn't mean much, but for what it's worth, I really am sorry for your loss, and… And a simple 'sorry' can't even begin to describe how _sorry_ I am for causing his death… Sorry for saying 'sorry' so much."

Both medic and leader stared at him for almost a full minute, and Lennox thought he would disintegrate under the intensity of their piercing eyes. He was sure that he had been polite; stupid because of his repetitiveness, but civil. Perhaps he had said something socially unacceptable by metal alien standards. It was hard to tell with these guys—they were very reserved.

"You are, in no way, guilty of Jazz's death, Captain," Optimus said sympathetically.

The alien crouched to be closer to Lennox, and he felt invaded at the unintentional looming, but quickly overrode the sensation when comprehension dawned upon him: the leader simply wanted to talk to him as an _equal_.

"He was daring and tenacious," Optimus continued. "and fought for what he believed until the very end. I doubt he would have had it any other way."

"But I was impulsive and stupid," Lennox argued. "I charged in with my men—"

"Like any passionate soldier would," the Prime cut in. "Captain, it was your world at stake, and your way of procedure was only logical."

Sullen and rueful, Lennox crossed his arms and stared at Jazz's shell. His worried screams and gentle claws seemed so alive in his mind, nudging his shoulders and hollering in his ears to get away before it was too late. Lennox had dumbly thought that he would retreat with them, so it had been a surprise to look over his shoulder to find the robot taunting NBE-1. The kid, Sam, had called him Megatron.

He wondered if his voice had been lost in the turmoil of battle, or if Jazz had decided to ignore his pleading yells to fall back with them. Lennox hadn't wanted the friendly alien to believe that he thought he didn't stand a chance, but he had been so small and Megatron so big… Lennox hadn't really cared about possibly hurt egos when he shouted at Jazz to stop playing hero and flee like any good coward would.

"Someone wise," Optimus started, and Lennox snapped out of his reverie. "once said to me that mourning every loss would be fruitless. Perhaps you should listen to this advice and… apply it."

Lennox heaved a sigh, "Who gave you that piece of advice?"

The not-Peterbilt quirked his metallic mouth in a mystical smile. "Jazz."

Nodding, Lennox hastily rubbed at the corner of his eye, dreading the idea of starting to sob in front of technologically advanced extra-terrestrial beings. He wasn't the kind of man who thought that crying made you weaker, but doing it in front of aliens was not exactly a smart move. Not when you still weren't completely and safely acquainted with them.

"So h-how was he like?" he stuttered, then cleared his throat. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Ratchet said, welding back together small bits of broken metal with his index finger. "Your stress hormones are flooding the room; it's impressive how collected you're managing to look."

"Uh, thanks," Lennox said hesitantly, then blinked up at Optimus.

"Jazz was many things, but most of all, he was lively." After a short pause, Optimus added, "Very."

"Happy-go-lucky and immature," Ratchet provided.

"Jovial, compassionate, spontaneous…" Optimus hummed as his eyes got lost in thought. "He had great passion for music and cultures."

"Yes, and he became especially fond of your urban culture. Break dance, rap, and so on. His first phrase using a human dialect was, 'What's crackin', lil' bitches?' But that's how Jazz was. The first thing to come out of his mouth in a new environment would never be mannerly," Ratchet said, finishing welding back together a thick cable and giving Jazz's chest a perplexingly affectionate pat. "You'll be repaired in no time, my friend."

"Why…? Um, may I ask a question?" Lennox asked, running a hand through his spiky hair.

"Of course," Optimus said.

"I don't mean to sound rude, though I know it's gonna sound that way, but… Why repair him if he's dead?" he inquired, whispering the last word.

Ratchet glared at him, and Lennox felt his legs weaken. "Do you leave your deceased ones' bodies covered in blood and intestinal fluids, and with their flesh torn?"

"N-no."

"Well then, there you have your answer!"

"Easy, Ratchet," Optimus said soothingly. "Captain Lennox is only curious. Our races are not the same, after all."

"But _that_ was one stupid question," the alien medic huffed, digging into Jazz's chassis again with his welder-finger. "Think before you talk, Lennox. It'd be a pity you were another Joe lacking in the wit department."

Startled at the use of his name, Lennox simply nodded. He was starting to get tired of losing his voice and stammering, but the last days had been too draining for him to keep his brain responses working like they usually would. The next time he saw a bed, he would downright faint without even being capable of reaching it.

Lennox followed Ratchet's gaze to the carcass. He still felt so very guilty about Jazz's death, and now that he knew his name and main personality treats, the Captain couldn't help but feel that he had somehow gotten to know a little better the soul he had extinguished forever.

He had been responsible of many deaths over the course of his existence as a soldier, both by his hand and by his carelessness. Still, never in his lifetime had he left someone behind during a fight to save his own skin, not even in primary school. This was a first for him, and albeit Lennox hadn't abandoned Jazz willingly or even knowingly, the blame was overwhelming.

"Is that what you see when you look at him?" He stared at both aliens. "Is he really that disfigured?"

"Quite so, yes," Optimus revealed sadly.

"Isn't he just sliced in half?"

"No," Ratchet said grimly. "He's dented all over; he's got a fusion cannon blast right _here_, which I can only imagine how much hurt in the moment; his torso was crushed prior to his death; and finally, he was torn in two and thrown to the ground from the top of a building. To put it simply, a total _wreck_."

Lennox stood in horrified silence while Ratchet kept welding cables and wires, and Optimus eyed him closely with something akin to concern.

"How can you talk about it so naturally?"

"It's not the first time I lose a friend, Lennox," the alien medic rumbled. "I'll mourn later, when I'm alone and no one's around to see me. Right now, I'm just a medic, putting back the pieces of the patient he couldn't save."

"But he's not just a patient."

"Thinking too much about it will take me nowhere," Ratchet shrugged, and Lennox didn't feel anger at his apparent detachment, but understanding. A myriad of times he had pretended not to be affected by one of his men's death, if only to give the survivors the illusion of courage.

"I thought he was coming right behind me," he admitted after some minutes had passed, shifting uneasily on his feet. "I really did. I wouldn't have left if I had known he planned to stay."

"There is no point in duelling over the same, Captain," Optimus said. "You will only succeed in feeding your misery."

"I suppose you're right," Lennox murmured, watching raptly as the medic lifted several cogs and wires, placed them in his lap and started working on them. A gooey weird-looking liquid dripped from the innards, and his throat dried at the idea that maybe it was blood.

Lennox had seen bulbs of flesh that were supposed to be bodies, and scars so monstrous that you ended up forgetting that the thing in front of you was human, sentient and, if not in vegetative state, aware of your gesture of revulsion. Lennox had held those people's hands and, in some cases, cleaned their wounds as they wept.

Never would he have guessed that seeing a brutalized metal alien's body and knowing it was totally maimed caused his stomach to shiver. The fact that the scraps belonged to someone that had knowingly thrown himself into a ghastly death to defend him and his unit was enough to have that same organ tighten. Seeing the deceased alien's friend cradling his soaked guts was too much to bear.

"Captain?"

"I-I'm… I n-need to…" Lennox gulped down whatever had crept up his oesophagus and held up his hand. "Be right back."

And he sprinted for the bay doors.

"Leave him be, Optimus," he heard Ratchet say. "He's just going to vomit."

"What could have possibly triggered—?"

After that, Lennox heard no more, for he bent over and proceeded to empty his stomach of whatever it contained. He had eaten three granola bars and drank half a bottle of water in the last two days, so he didn't have much to puke. Either way, it took him a while to stop gagging and spewing, but that was because he hadn't regurgitated in months, and the forgotten, unwelcome taste of his bile kept causing his pained stomach to contract in spasms.

He spit again, tersely wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform, and a stray thought played with the idea of asking the alien medic for a pill that would make him a vomit-free man for the rest of his days.

Leaning against the warehouse's rusty wall, Lennox slid down until his butt hit the dirt below him. Tiredly, he unslung his gun from his shoulder and tossed it on top of a wooden box. It was amazing how many packages and containers still lay there, although the place looked like it had been abandoned for a good decade, maybe more.

Carefully avoiding the small pool of vomit, he stretched his legs in front of him and ran a hand across his abdomen. The intestines inside him answered with a growl, and Lennox deemed a prudent choice to remain put awhile. He looked around, expecting to see some of his men roaming about, but all he saw was the not-Topkick. The disguised black robot was innocently parked on a side of the road with his four wheels resting on the clay, facing towards the side they had come from.

He was standing guard.

"Robot," Lennox greeted.

"Human." There was a tinge of hatred, somewhere amongst those words.

"Where are my men?"

"Sergeant Epps and the rest left to intercept a group of incomings."

Lennox now understood his passive-aggressive position. "Sector Seven?"

"No. Civilians."

"Oh… Think they'll take long?"

"The interception will happen in roughly seven minutes. How long it will take for them to convince the other party to leave is unknown. Estimated time of return is roughly fourteen minutes."

"Okay. I'll stand guard until they come back, if you want. I know you might want to go in there." He tapped the wall behind him.

"I'll stay here."

"But they're talking about Jazz." The gloomy, unintelligible whispers coming out of the building said as much.

"I can hear them just fine from here," the alien muttered gruffly.

"Okay, just a thought," Lennox said. "Optimus and Ratchet will call you in if needed, I guess."

He could practically _see_ the not-Topkick blink in annoyed surprise. "You know their designations."

Lennox shrugged. "I have ears."

"You _remember_ them."

"I have a brain."

A low growl was the only answer he got, and Lennox searched for a new topic desperately. Right then, he was terrified of being left to his thoughts.

"So what's yours?"

"What?"

"What's your name? Your designation."

The not-Topkick seemed to stall for a second. "Ironhide."

"Ironhide," Lennox repeated, absentmindedly wiping at his lips again. "Well, nice to meet you, Ironhide. Name's William Lennox."

"There's no need for you to present yourself, Captain. I have already downloaded your profile archives into my processor."

He almost choked at this. "Wh-what?"

Ironhide frowned mentally as he tried to discover where exactly he had failed to use the English language correctly. "Didn't I express myself clearly?"

"Yes, you did, but—"

"Then why do you ask me to repeat myself?" Ironhide grunted, his engine revving dangerously.

Lennox narrowed his eyes, refusing to be intimidated. "Because you just said you hacked into my personal records."

"So?"

"That's not nice."

"It isn't?"

"No. If I were you, I wouldn't admit it so openly. It's a federal crime."

Ironhide huffed. "Your government's ways of punishment hardly scare me. Don't try to daunt me, flesh bag."

"Don't piss me off, rust pile," Lennox threatened, and his eyes stung with tears. He hugged his knees and looked away. "I'm not in the mood."

The black alien remained silent as he struggled to regain his composure. He was acting way too childish and sensitive for a grown man, especially for one that had seen as many horrors as he had. Inhaling and exhaling as deeply as his lungs would allow him to, Lennox slowly started to find his poise. Only when he managed to calm down did Ironhide say,

"Your stress hormones are terribly messed up."

"That's what he said," Lennox retorted sarcastically.

Ignoring him, the not-Topkick continued, "If this continues, there are a fifty-two point zero-nine-three per cent chances of your passing out. You should see a human medic."

"I don't want to see a medic, alright?" Lennox shouted at Ironhide. "I drove my men into a secure death and then retreated with the ones that were still alive while your friend died. I don't _feel_ like seeing a fucking medic right now!"

He glared at the not-Topkick and waited. Lennox waited for something, anything that would distract him. At this point, he was even willing to have a giant metal foot step on him and break all of his ribs. The pain would keep him busy for some weeks, and the government would give him some nice, useless money that he could spend on gifts for his wife and new-born daughter.

But Ironhide never crushed him.

"Don't feel guilty, Lennox," he merely said. The alien voice was low and steady, almost comforting. Lennox blinked his watery eyes at the usage of his name, again taken aback by it. When a car said it, the word somehow sounded different, stronger.

The Captain gritted his teeth. "Shut up! Don't tell me not to feel guilty. I know it wasn't my fault, but at the same time, it was. You know what I mean?" He gave a weak little laugh. "I don't think you do; you're all warrior, from head to toe—or from bumper to rear. I don't know. And what about me? I'm just a young officer who gives a shit. Man, am I screwed."

He stood up and shouted to no one, "I'm screwed because I give a shit!"

Ironhide slowly drove up to where Lennox was standing, and he stood stiffly, trying to decipher the black alien's intentions but finding nothing coherent in his deductions. Suddenly, the not-Topkick's hood split in two, and quickly followed what looked like a disentangling of pipes and cogs. The small show finished and Ironhide peered down at him with his turquoise eyes, proud, sad and just a bit smug.

"You will stop this irritating brooding now," he said with a booming voice, crouching down much more hastily and menacingly than Optimus had. "Jazz's deactivation was hardly your fault, and blaming yourself won't bring him back. Are we clear?"

Lennox took in the cracked eye and ancient scars, mentally noting to himself that picking a fight with this particular robot was not smart.

"Wow, you're scary," Lennox blurted, taking a panicked step back.

The words were out before he knew it, and his apology died when he _really_ looked at the alien in front of him. He started hyperventilating and his pupils dilated in fear. Not seven hours ago, he had seen the same huge cannons that now rested on the not-Topkick's arms blow up buildings, cars and seemingly invincible robots. Those deadly weapons were now mere metres away from him, peaceably humming their concealed prowess. Ally or not, Lennox had no desire of being near such a destructive _thing_, because no matter how long you looked at him, Ironhide couldn't be sentient. He just couldn't. In fact, the Captain was suddenly very sure that none of the aliens were really capable of feelings. Never mind he had seen as the medic quailed trying to save his friend; forget the way the leader's eyes expressed everything he couldn't show. Lennox was terrified.

"Lennox, calm down," uttered Ironhide, moving his hands up and down slightly in the 'please chill' human motion. The cannons moved with them, and he took another step back.

"Okay, I'll calm down, but you put those freakin' things away," Lennox squawked, pointing agitatedly at the weapons.

"What? Oh." Ironhide lowered his arms uncertainly, then clasped his hands behind his back. He looked rather ridiculous, in that crouching position and with his arms like that, but Lennox preferred it. "Sorry."

"It's…" He sighed gratefully. "It's alright. Just don't point them at my near area for now—I almost get killed by one of those a few hours ago."

"Not by mine."

"No, but they looked pretty much the same." He rubbed at his neck.

"I apologise," Ironhide droned, and Lennox knew that the alien was acting contrite without really knowing why. Still, he was sincerely sorry.

"Apology accepted, but there's nothing to forgive, really," he said, instantly remembering Ratchet's words, and thereby the deceased Jazz. "Anyway, I'll go back inside now. Kinda walked out in the middle of a conversation."

The not-Topkick nodded. "I'll return to my post."

"There's no need for that, you know," Lennox said, grabbing his gun and walking inside. "Civilians ain't a threat."

Ironhide rumbled noncommittally as he transformed back into his alt-mode, and Lennox rolled his eyes at the alien's stubborn mistrust.

"Captain," greeted Optimus. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah, thanks," he noticed Ratchet working on Jazz's upper chassis again, and sighed in relief at not having to see any alien innards for the time being. Guilt pricked him, and something told Lennox that he would be feeling that way about the silver robot's death for the next months, until he finally moved on. It was always that way with him.

Walking over to the lime coloured medic, Lennox asked to be brought closer to the not-Solstice's head. From Ratchet's cupped hand, he admired the extra-terrestrial shapes and curves of the metal; how they bent and curled to make a fine skull of sorts, with some kind of futuristic sunglasses included. It was almost artistic, and the dents and scratches Jazz sported now did little to take away his beauty. Lennox guessed that he might have been considered quite a catch by other robots.

"I'm sure we would've gotten along," he said.

Musician and dancer. Curious and impulsive. Kind-hearted and humorous. A friend Lennox would never have the pleasure to meet.

Caressing Jazz's silver forehead, he frowned sadly. "Goodbye, big guy."


	2. Ironhide

Read'n'Review—it feeds the muse!

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><p><strong>Inevitable Loss<br>****Chapter Two: ****Ironhide**

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><p>A thunder resounded in the distance, and Lennox startled himself awake. His abrupt rousing, however, had little to do with the storm and everything to do with his nightmare. Restless and sweaty, he stared at the ceiling, petrified. Adrenaline kept flowing through his veins; a toxin that infected his system to increase his chances of survival but distorted his rationale. Lennox's breath was raspy and laboured as he tightened his grip on the sheets below him. The only movement he could muster to make was dart his brown irises in all directions, wild and wary.<p>

_Location: home? No, it's a trap. Decepticons. Where? _Outside the room's window, a tree shuddered with the rain, and Lennox's eyes widened crazily at the dancing shadows, his breath hitching for a second._ There! Kill them. Shoot, shoot, shoot. Wait. Run? No, we're dead._

Then, he heard the unrelenting platter of raindrops on the roof.

Mind clearing, Lennox forced his eyes shut and sighed. When he had been far from home and there were continents of distance between him and his girls, the then Captain would plead to God for a night of sweet dreams about them. If he prayed to Him for favours now, it was to beg for a slumber free of thinking. Lennox wanted cold, quiet, welcoming darkness to give his frayed brain some peace.

His ears rang with the screams and explosions of something that had happened twelve days ago. 'Chicago Hell' was how Epps had labelled it. Up until now, they had dubbed the more serious battles (Mission City and Egypt) as 'fiascos,' but this one had been too horrifying to be just that; Satan itself had taken part in that encounter. Corpses were still being found and retrieved. The Fallen's killing spree had seemed a flea next to Sentinel's scheme of world conquest and rash Decepticon army.

Stubbornly, Lennox kept his eyelids closed until the noises were gone.

He tried to calm his ragged breathing when he noticed his wife's genteel silhouette just mere inches away from him. It would be useless to snatch Sarah out of her much needed rest just to torture her with his anguishes. Sufferings she couldn't, wouldn't and shouldn't understand ever in her lifetime.

Lennox got up and slipped out of bed noiselessly. Sarah, however, was already used to her husband's sneaky ways, which caused her to crack an eye open and gaze at him groggily. He stared back, forcing a little smile as he did so. The man could sneak away from a twenty feet tall potential death machine, but not from Sarah; she was something else.

"Hey, babe."

"Hey," she sighed against her pillow. "'Sup?"

"Nothing. Bathroom." It was obvious to both of them that he was lying.

Sarah stared at him for a second, and then closed her blue eyes in resignation. "'Kay."

"Be right back," he murmured, tiptoeing out of their room.

Padding down the corridor, Lennox considered going to see his adorable toddler and wake her up to keep himself away from his musings. It would be selfish of him, he decided, and kept on walking stealthily. Lennox found himself momentarily saddened by the thought that he was a soldier even in his home: always furtive, always vigilant. He remembered being able to sit back and actually _enjoy_ the silence, never believing it was unsettling or foreboding; just calming. It seemed so long ago, and yet Lennox knew it had been as natural as breathing. As any other average man, he had swum in his ignorant humanness despite being a prodigious young captain. Then he had suddenly been choked by the nets of Truth. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that he had been tangled by them and he was flailing and failing to disentangle himself.

He ignored the bathroom's door and headed for the stairs. A thunder echoed throughout the house, and Lennox flattened himself to the ground.

Danger was imminent. The thunder was just a distraction; it was actually a sound induced by some Decepticon to hide the scream of non-friendly jet engines from his human ears. Colonel Lennox quieted his breath. His eyes focused, sharp and deadly in the night, and he waited.

Nothing happened.

Lennox inhaled and his muscles tensed even more. He wasn't giving up so easily; he had been in the middle of battlefields (many of them including aliens) way too many times to discard a menace so quickly and so negligently. Forcing his senses to their limit, he waited with his chest growing cold against the wooden floorboards. Seconds turned into minutes that slipped by noiselessly, and the only thing Lennox heard was Sarah toss around the bed twice and his daughter sneeze once.

He straightened; his heart pounding in his chest so hard it hurt. There was no threat in the vicinity. His mind had simply toyed with him again. Lennox stifled a groan. He was growing more obsessed with each passing moment. To know that you were losing what little common sense and sanity you had left was turning out to be a truly depressing business.

Resuming his walk, Lennox grimaced. Ironhide would have helped him to stay calm and collected, protectively parked outside his house, looking out for them. No longer would his family revel in feeling safe.

Before he knew it, he was hurrying down to the ground floor and rushing to his office at home. One hand was pressed against his mouth in grim determination to keep the sobs at bay until he reached privacy.

Throwing himself inside the room, he locked the door clumsily with shaking hands. After a moment of silence, Lennox bumped his forehead against the sleek wood, contorting his face in a silent scream as tears started running down his face. He punched the surface with contained rage and sorrow, trying to keep his emotions under control but wishing to let it be for once in his life. Lennox wanted to be a man. Not a soldier, not a warrior, not a hero, not a saviour, not a survivor, and not a killer. He wanted to be a normal human man and cry.

Lennox slid down to the floor. He turned to rest his back against the door, and bumped the back of his head against it rhythmically, the hushed thuds reverberating in the office.

"Ah, God, no," he begged. The indifferent silence met his pleas, and offered no solace.

It hadn't been this hard when Jazz had died. True, Lennox hadn't even known the bot's name back then, but a death was still a death, and he had wept the fallen saboteur for months, blaming himself each step of the way. He had thought that mourning had been excruciating, but now he knew that he hadn't even grazed true grief until Ironhide's deactivation came around.

Lennox fixated his eyes on the cross that rested on the wall and let out a whimper. He wondered where God was when you needed Him; why He didn't interfere to save those who deserved it. As a soldier that had seen innumerable horrors, Lennox's bravery in the battlefield was driven by both noble feelings and vengeance. The latter was always present, no matter the circumstances. He found it to be an effective energizer.

This time, though, he simply wanted the good guys to be saved; to have their lives reignited, returned, rebooted, revived, recharged, resuscitated. However it was said. Never mind that the ones who fell were both humans and Transformers: a soul was a soul.

"Why?" Lennox continued, angrily wiping his face. "Why him? Why them? Why _us_? Do You have fun playing with our lives?" he glared at the cross. "Some god You are."

Lennox could feel the silence laughing at him. It cackled at his survivor's guilt and chortled at his broken spirit. He boiled with rage, for he wished quietness had a body he could mutilate. Perhaps after having shredded its physical existence to sorry rags he would feel better. Butchery, inhumanity and cruelty were becoming his element, as of late.

"Lives aren't disposable, You know?" Lennox added in a steely, unforgiving voice.

His eyes caught a glimpse of his laptop. The very same Lennox had used countless times to go over reports despite being beyond himself with fatigue, while a certain weaponry specialist kept hacking into the files and briefing them for him. Lennox bit his lower lip hard as the nightmare replayed itself inside of his mind, and the man found himself unable to stop the flow of memories. Haunting and consuming, they slowly dragged him into a terrified sleep.

And then there he was.

Lennox was with his grenade launcher at the ready and standing guard; so was Ironhide, only that he had his ever-present cannons humming in anticipation. Sentinel's well-being was their priority at the moment, but something was tugging at his mind, telling him in hushed tones that something didn't quite fit as it should. The Colonel inside him told Lennox to make a run for his life and leave the newly found Prime behind. The same voice urging him to flee also advised him to downright deactivate the ancient leader.

Lennox discreetly kept his thoughts to himself, for he was sure that he would be sent to the psychiatrist for having an anxiety disorder.

Shifting his feet, the Colonel looked up to the black Autobot. Ironhide poured confidence and fierceness, hovering a short distance away. Lennox discovered that he could read his feelings. It was the weirdest thing, but also very cool. When he perceived fear, he frowned and cocked his head.

Ironhide's turquoise optics looked down at Lennox's brown eyes, and his thoughts were bared to him: the veteran feared for his flimsy human life, just like he always did when a battle rolled their way. It was reasonable, considering how he was small and fleshy, and not big and made of metal. Ironhide trusted Lennox, though, and for that the human trusted him back. That was what friends did: have each other's backs. Ironhide spun his left arm's cannon anxiously and looked away.

Then Lennox gazed at Sentinel, and his skin crawled when he read his thoughts. Betrayal was all he saw. The traitor was picking a victim to declare his disloyalty. _Ratchet or Ironhide?_ He decided that deactivating the weapons specialist was the smartest choice. It would not only demotivate the Autobots, but also be a strategically smart move. CMOs, he could allow them to keep; battle stratagem contrivers—not so much.

Being enlightened with the terrible truth, Lennox tried to warn his comrade, and found his voice and body blocked from his spirit. No matter how much he screamed, he was too feeble and hopeless to do anything. He had been turned to stone, and he could only watch as it occurred.

Pulling out a cosmic rust cannon out of thin air, Sentinel shot at Ironhide square between the shoulder blade plates. It was very unsatisfactory the way the tough warrior was so easily defeated. The red mech had hoped for a little more of a challenge. No regret accosted him as the weapons specialist fell, coughing, rusting and finally dying. He barely spared him a glance.

Lennox recovered the capacity to exist and despaired. Perhaps if he had been more perceptive and quick, he would have been able to prevent what Sentinel had just done. He staggered towards his friend, and the corrupted Prime took a moment to gloat in his uselessness.

A potential threat had been wiped out. The will of another had been smashed.

Shooting at Ratchet and whatever other Autobot was in the vicinity, Sentinel left to find his pillars. Lennox only had eyes for Ironhide. He screamed like he never had as his friend turned to dust. The shrill sound of his voice pierced his own ears, but he didn't stop. It was his fault; he had killed Ironhide.

Lennox howled mournfully and fell to his knees, bawling until he felt like his throat had started to bleed.

Abruptly, he found himself back at his office, leaning against the door and breathing heavily. His throat was tight with an unleashed shriek. Swallowing it down, he scanned the room predatorily. This time, it took him less effort to realise that he was home and well, instead of in the middle of a slaughter. Lennox could see the sun starting to leak through the window blinds and exhaled shakily. Two nightmares in one night; that was an improvement from the several ones he had had lately.

A part of his brain nibbled at his conscience, telling him that Sarah must be worried. Lennox then reminded himself that his sudden disappearances into his office in the middle of the night had become a sad, sad routine for them. Running a hand down his face, he noticed the tear tracks, and sternly rubbed his cheeks to erase them.

"Shit." He sniffled and put his head between his knees. "I can't do this anymore. It's too much. Too fucking much."

Ironhide would have prodded him with a massive finger for being so weak. He would have loomed over, demanding that he acted like the human adult dominant male he was supposed to be, and stopped weeping as if he were a hatchling. The black Autobot had always known how to pierce Lennox's brains with speeches that reminded him of a seasoned drill sergeant, even though he had his own alien way of wiping the floor with him verbally. _But he's gone._

The weapons specialist was _gone,_ and would never come back. He had left them all to go back to that fancy, flashy place Optimus mentioned every now and then: The Well of All Sparks, which was the Cybertronian equivalent of Heaven, or close enough, if Lennox had understood correctly. Learning about his alien friend's culture and beliefs had never mattered so little to him. To think that Ironhide was now in that place angered him to no end, and he felt strangely offended, as if he had been used and then tossed aside like some old rag. Lennox knew that the old mech had never looked at him like he was just a useful walking, intelligent tool; still, the sting of abandonment lay bare in his human heart. To him, it felt as if Ironhide had left him behind.

He also detested his brand new Silverado. It had four wheels that were outrageously easy to pierce, was an even more outrageous shade of dark grey, and its windows didn't darken and clarify at convenience. Such an obviously made-by-human car, it revolted him. The mere thought of sitting inside it and driving it made Lennox feel like he was spitting on his father's grave and cheating on Sarah at the same time.

Ironhide had been more than just his Topkick. He had been his friend, and a very good one. One couldn't simply erase that with a soulless replacement. The Silverado, despite how nice and suave his wife and friends claimed it to be, would never win his favour. Not even his acknowledgement.

Actually, Lennox doubted he would drive again, no matter the car model. He was scared of forgetting Ironhide's synthetic leather seats and the distinct revving of his zillion-year-old engine. Hence, realising that he would indeed forget those things, because his human mind was faulty and would eventually fail him, had Lennox walking away from any vehicle he crossed paths with—particularly if they were pickup trucks. The longer his memory remained uncontaminated by petty Ironhide-wannabes, the longer he would keep his friend.

There was a soft knock on the door. "Will?"

Lennox sniffled again quietly before answering hoarsely, "Yeah?"

"Is there anything you'd like for breakfast?" asked Sarah's muffled voice.

Looking at the innocent cross hanging in the wall with accusing hatred once more, he dropped his haggard gaze to the digital watch resting on his desk. Having breakfast at five o'clock in the morning on a Sunday wasn't normal; not even for Lennox, and he was a soldier with a jetlagged stomach.

He shrugged despite the fact that she couldn't see his gesture. "Anything's fine, honey."

"Maybe… sausages, scrambled eggs and orange juice?"

Lennox wondered if she had chosen all of favourite things on purpose. "Okay."

"Okay? Sounds good?"

"Yeah." He doubted he would be able to enjoy the food, but she didn't need to know that. In all honesty, Lennox wouldn't have minded having to eat Annabelle's flower-shaped biscuits. Nothing really mattered at the moment; he felt like an empty shell that had been filled with blinding pain.

"Don't you want anything else?"

"No. That's fine," he said.

"… Don't you want some bacon or hash browns with it? Waffles, maybe?" she insisted.

"Sarah, really, I'm good with the sausages and scrambled eggs."

"Coffee?"

"The juice's fine."

"Oh, alright," Sarah said crestfallenly.

Lennox picked it up and frowned over his shoulder at the door. "Sweetie, what's wrong?"

"It's just that I need to keep myself busy with something," she admitted. Lennox heard her snuffle and his heart promptly broke in two. "You know… I miss him too, Will."

Fresh tears ran down the man's face, and he didn't fight them back this time. "Yeah," he bumped his head against the door once. "Yeah, I know."

They remained in silence for a moment, each listening to the other's futile attempt to keep their sadness hidden. Finally, Lennox got up and unlocked the door. When he opened it, Sarah shyly snuggled against his chest. He hugged her without further question. When she looked up at his bleary eyes, Lennox felt no shame in letting her see his vulnerability. She was as torn as he was, and there was no judgement in her blue irises; just the weariness that grieving leaves behind.

"Sometimes, I start talking to the Silverado and get offended when it doesn't answer," she confessed. "I ask it if it wants a wax. I tell it something funny Annabelle did. I call it… I call it…"

"It's okay," Lennox whispered. He didn't need her to finish that sentence.

Sarah shook her head with her eyes brimming. "But then I remember it's not him, and it's so… I feel like…" she sobbed.

"Babe, calm down."

"I c-can't. S-something's missing! No—S_omeone_'s m-missing."

Lennox stroked her cheek. There was indeed a person absent in their lives. "I know."

"It's k-killing me, Will. It re-really is killing m-me."

Then he was probably six feet under since almost two weeks ago.

"And the se-seats are cold. H-he…" She mustered what courage had left to pronounce the name, "Ironhide always kept them w-warm for m-me."

"I know. I know he did, Sarah," he brushed her forehead with his lips. "But we'll be fine."

"We'll learn n-not to cry about it, but w-we'll never be fine, W-Will."

"I know, but it's the only thing we can do at present," Lennox murmured, wiping her tears away. His eyes had stopped overflowing some minutes ago, but his gaze was still abnormally glittery. "Now, do you need some help scrambling those eggs?" he asked, and she nodded after some stalling.

"I could use some help," she said.

"Okay, let's go then," Lennox wrapped one arm around her shoulders. "We could bake some star-shaped cookies for Annabelle," he said, starting to walk down the corridor.

Sarah rubbed at her eyes and nodded again. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

Lennox flashed her a smile, his acting skills surprising even him. "Or we could make them with her, when she wakes up."

"Annie will like that. She doesn't get to see you much, nowadays."

"That'll change now. We did win the goddamn war now." Out of the blue, Lennox snapped his fingers. "Crap, I forgot something in the office. You go to the kitchen; I'll be there in a sec."

"'Kay," she said, and he pecked her lips.

"Be right back."

He marched back to the room with his unnervingly stealthy feet and stood at the door, taking in the furniture and every ornament and knick-knack plaguing the place. Lennox looked down at where he had been sitting since several hours ago, half-expecting to find a puddle of tears. No such a thing was visible. Only he would know how much he had wept in that very spot, and exactly how many times.

The Colonel felt his eyes starting to sting, and forced himself to take a deep breath. He was a toughie; survivor's guilt was not his thing. Lennox was confident that he would get over Ironhide's death, even if it took years. Somehow, he knew it would take more than that, and the time-out between this torture and his recovery would prove to be utter woe. Lennox already wanted to crawl into a hole and it hadn't even been half a month, so he really didn't know how the future could be any brighter. He rubbed at his eyes. _Just dust, just dust,_ he chanted.

In spite of the best of his efforts, he walked into the room and locked the door with shaky hands.

* * *

><p>"<strong>Life is a cherished possession, death is an inevitable loss."<strong>


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